Home of the absurdish vignettes and short fiction of author Martin Rex

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Sir Isaac Newton stalked the periphery of the Booda Dome, where something had caught his rapt attention. He crouched behind the Shoji screen the humans had erected to mask the scatological deeds that transpire beyond its border. Shooting his head around the corner, he snapped it right back. No. I was not seen. Jargon defecated serenely within the Dome, a look of dim contentment on her face. A bulbous cyst on her tail soaked up flecks as it flopped lazily behind her.

Sir Isaac’s heart fluttered like a trapped moth. So, old crone,it is beneath the shadow of the Booda Dome that you will meet your morbid end! He pressed his body low, a Zen warrior. Steady, Isaac. You shall have your vengeance.

Presently, his ears twitched up-then-sideways, honing in. The tell-tale scraping. His coat bristled with supercharged anticipation. Go on, my fat, furry femme. Obscure the evidence of your malfeasance. It matters not! Your precious ceremony, like your life, has reached its dénouement! I am amused to wonder — do you sense that these moments are to be your last?

As Jargon padded from the Booda Dome, Sir Isaac was instantly upon her, razor-sharp claws springing from his right paw as it hacked at her face. Pivoting on her right hind leg, Jargon executed a spin move, whirling her flabby body counter-clockwise with stunning speed to dodge the claw assault. Forced forward by the momentum of his attack, Isaac tumbled over his front haunches, smashing into an IKEA bookcase the humans were still constructing. What, what? The assembly instructions drifted down upon his head. Sir Isaac glimpsed an odd bubble-figure man holding a hammer who seemed to be pointing at him, laughing.

Away, human symbols! He batted the paper in disgust. Jargon was revealed, looming. How dare you violate the sanctity of my excretion ritual! She bore down on Sir Isaac with gruesome girth. He countered with a defensive technique he had learned on the streets before consenting to co-habitate with the humans, pummeling Jargon’s exposed belly with a volley of machine-gun bunny kicks.

Jargon let out a choked screech-meow. Her body toppled. Isaac ninja-rolled to his left, narrowly escaping a fatal squashing. In an instant, he was on his feet again, eyes wild with bloodlust. Try this on for size, cow! He leapt onto the arm of the chaise-lounge, launching an aerial maneuver that sent multi-colored accent pillows flying.Switch-blade claws sprung open in mid-air as he descended from the heavens, limbs extended, poised to envelope Jargon in a murderous embrace.

Jargon played her trump card, flailing the grotesque cyst on her tail like some brand of medieval mace. Her timing was impeccable. The cyst-mace smashed into Sir Isaac’s head as he dropped from above, the impact causing a torrent of acid-pus to spray across his face as he was sent careening into the next room, arms and legs entangling themselves in the framework of a Home Styles Bordeaux Dining Chair. An apple on the kitchen island dislodged, dropping onto Sir Isaac Newton’s head with a thunk. For several moments he reclined. Stunned. Eyes vacant.